Gift of Life
by AlexHamato
Summary: Hamato Splinter did not always aspire to be a father to four boys. He had to learn over the years that they were not a grief for him, but a gift. A gift of the best kind. The gift that will never stop giving. The gift of fatherhood.


_I have been claiming to write a Splinter-centered story based on how I interpret the turtles growing up in the sewers of New York. Here it is. A nice, warm, and FLUFFY Christmas story. Kinda, not really. Most of the inspiration comes from the original and IDW comics of the turtles. Kinda. What can I say? I tend to just do whatever. Even so, I hope you dudes enjoy this. Aster Sapphire inspired me to write this, so it is her you can thank. If you so desire. Heh. _

_I do not own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Nickelodeon does._

* * *

Hamato Splinter never wanted to be a father. When he was reborn for the second time with a body strong enough to kill man, he wanted only to take his hatred and grief to train himself stronger than before. Strong enough to avenge his father. But he was held back by four little children. They were not his own, no – they were strange to him. Unknown. Different.

Splinter never believed these children would grow up. They were but infants when the mutation ran it's course. So young. So feeble and helpless. He was a younger rat, then. Youthful. His heart darkened with revenge; he took to ignoring them. If they cried too much, he left. But he always came back. He even fed them, on occasion. At first he was not sure why. They were not his children. They were four extra mouths; it would be too much. He had to avenge his own father, not become one himself.

It was Karma, the rat would reflect back on in his older years. It had to be. Why else would such a random pile of debris fall down whilst he was scavenging for food or good bottles for fresh water. He had traveled that route a hundred times. He made no movements except for the light tread of his padded feet. He had learned quickly how to move with silence, that he had seen his father master. It was almost instinctual. A hunter had to move silent, to avoid detection from their pray.

But then, how did he not sense that brick and rusted, decrepit piping falling upon him? He should have sensed something. His whiskers never lie, but even so, he did not sense the loose bricks fall away, taking old piping with them. He was struck in the head. For hours he laid dazed or unconscious. He would slip between the two like a silken robe. It took time, for his head throbbed and he found it difficult to focus on where he was going through the maze of dark tunnels, but he found his way home. Or, at least, where he left the children every day.

The skin on his scalp at been broken; fresh and hot blood oozing through the roots of his fur until it became matted. The young ones were only a few weeks into their mutation, same as him. It was an odd thought, as if they were reborn together. But they never knew Hamato Yoshi. They never knew anything about this world outside of their glass bowls. Most likely, they would never learn about this world. That saddened him. He had been in a cage before. Yoshi let him out. His father freed him.

But they were probably going to die. Especially so, since the wound in his head began to fester and he would be unable to feed or water them if he died. For the next week or so, his world became a hot, throbbing haze of haunted remnants of his short past. Ghosts of white-robed men. Glass cases. Long, twisting white mazes. Letters. Numbers. Flipping pages of paper propped up before him, before he even had hands. The memory that bristled his fur and made his blood ran cold was the needle. It looked so big to him, when he was little. He would scream and bite and wriggle to get away, but they didn't care. It was not until his father freed him, garbed in black and so unlike his captors. His father was kind with soft eyes. He fed him sweet, juicy fruit and soft yellow cubes of what he later identified as cheese. There were no cages for him, with his father. He would perch himself on the top of the shelves of the room, cleaning his fur with his claws and watching his father dance below him.

"A sound mind must have a sound body," he would say. His father would fight invisible foes that he could never see, in that room. But for all of his soundness, he could not stop the dark man from killing him. The one with dead eyes. His companion, possibly even friend. Splinter heard bits and pieces of how they grew up. Poverty, sickness, hunger – as the rat would learn soon enough. Of how they traveled over a great sea, captured in chains to learn how to serve and kill. He listened to them speak to one another; the loud, merry voice of his father that filled the room. The other was sullen, quiet. Dark and brooding. His father would say that they complimented one another. There had to be darkness to have light.

Splinter wished that he could speak to his father, but his body prevented him from doing so. Instead he listened to them speak. The language he had grown accustomed too was shifted to a much faster, high-paced language that he could hardly comprehend. His father must have known he was intelligent. He would show Splinter signs that his fathers and forefathers would write, to depict meanings. He called them _"hiragana"_ and "_Kanji_" and then sound out each character verbally.

Splinter watched, and learned.

But none of what was taught him could help him with his fever. His body was too weak. He would push away the little ones when they attempted to crawl and lay with him. He was too hot and they made it worse. Whether or not they were trying to comfort him, or just cold, he could never say. He just wanted to die alone, like his father had. He was so weak that he could not even avenge his death. As he remembered, his eyes stung and the faces of the little ones blurred and he spoke to them with a guttural croak, "You do not know this world. You are too small and stupid. You will die." Too _young_. But he was young himself. But youth did not save him... his sons did.

Hamato Splinter did not want to die. He could only think of his own father. Of how the sword cut through his chest like it was made of straw. Of how he bled, but did not beg for life. He just wanted _her_ to be spared, but she was already dead. Oroku Saki killed her first, the rat could smell her blood on his blade. Cherry blossom and chamomile, like how she smelled in life. The dead-eyed man never told his father that; he just let him die. _Splinter_ just let his father die.

He could never forgive himself, or let himself rest while Oroku Saki still lived. So Splinter held on. He remembered the name, the face, the eyes. He would remember his father.

The rat did not know how his body persevered, but it did. He fought off the sickness and began to regain his mind. _A sound mind must have a sound body_. His body was spent, but at least he still had his mind about him. He could work and train until his body was stronger. He swore then to fight the same invisible foes that his father had. To learn those movements for himself and have his body grow accustomed to them. Splinter still remembered, and would never forget.

"_Ser_," one of the babies gurgled at him, "_Ser-ee. Ser... ee._"

Splinter touched the head of the child. Warmed that it did not shy away. Eyes of a liquid moss stared at him. Green and bright with intelligence. "Sorry," he said. When did he say that, in his lucid dreaming? He did not remember.

"_Sa... wee._" The little mouth scrunched up with frustration.

"No, that is wrong. You must curl the sides of your tongue."

The child's eyes sharpened with confusion and anger. "_Ah! Ah!_"

Donatello did not change much from infancy. He did not appear older than his brothers, but he was far ahead intellectually. As they grew and developed, he would always pick up on the lessons of reading, writing, and speaking immediately. He was the first to master both languages and the first to show signs of logic and reasoning. Donatello would use a sharp rock, or shards of broken steel to scrape and pry open the weaker rims of cans, to open them. The short, stubby child that Splinter took to naming Raphael would throw the cans against the wall in anger when they would not open so easily for him. Splinter would reprimand him with a sharp swat of his little hand, and the baby would cry. Then he would ignore the child, because he did not know how to keep him quiet and the sound hurt his ears.

Those were his most troublesome sons. One would constantly cry and the other would always be moving away from their den. Donatello's curiosity was never satisfied and he seemed to always distance himself from the others. Choosing to sit alone rather than play with his brothers. The largest, who Splinter named Leonardo, was the most quiet and well-behaved. Because of this, Splinter had a tendency to forget the child and leave him to himself while he struggled to keep the two trouble-makers from hurting themselves or each other. It was frustrating work and left him feeling old and tired.

The most energetic of the bunch would always be demanding his attention by grabbing his tail or fur. And when the young one did not gain his attention, he would eat anything he found; rocks, mud, insects, or an off-colored brown and green slime that made the rat wonder how that child lived so long. There was a time, when he was not yet a month old, where he ate a rusted nail. The child was coughing up blood and Splinter thought for sure the child would die. He felt saddened but did not know how to help, other than dribbling water down his throat. He felt as if he was doing nothing, other than prolonging the young one's painful dying. So once the water was gone, he left the children to refill their reserves, by using the city's storm drains as a water source and filling plastic bottles that he would find abandoned all along the streets at night.

When he returned, he expected to bury one of the baby turtles. Instead he found a bloodied nail being fought over by Raphael and Donatello, while Leonardo held the sick one with wide eyes. The child was still alive and, after a few more weeks, was healthy enough to play with his brothers again. At least the child ceased eating whatever he found. For a few years, at least. Michelangelo never learned.

But those were the hardest of his years. Now they were older and could take care of themselves enough where he could spend more time teaching him how to fight as his own father did. Perhaps if they grew strong where he grew weak, they could avenge his father. Their grandfather. He spoke of Yoshi to them often, telling them stories of his home with the red door and the tasty food his father would share with him. Splinter felt guilty that he could not provide the same food for his own young ones, limited to the thrown away, half-rotten food that he found in dumpsters. If he was lucky or willing to risk exposure, he would gather cans of food from the dens of man and open them with his teeth or claws.

When the air was warm during the night, he would take his sons topside and show them where to find the best food and what to throw away, for fear of getting ill. He showed them how to avoid men and how to stick to the shadows of the tall buildings that seemed to touch the sky. He showed them the great expanse of trees and water and grasses that appear so suddenly in the city of stone and glass. They loved playing in the waters and rolling in the mud. It was always too dark for Splinter to catch fish with his claws, like he did during the first light of morning, but he would dig out worms and crunchy insects from the mud for their snacks. He knew that they would need meat, which was almost impossible to find unspoiled amidst the trash of the city, so he took to hunting pigeons and even other rats to keep them fed.

All of his sons took to hunting themselves, well enough. Raphael was the tracker. As he grew older, his crying became less frequent – even if it grew even louder. He had good instincts for finding the nests of pigeon families tucked into the high cracks of the stone buildings and more than once brought home eggs from other bird nests that he would scavenge from in the city woodlands. His brothers did well enough on their own, save for Michelangelo. The boy was quick enough to catch any prey, but did not have the heart to take the life. Splinter knew that his sons needed to be hardened for their lives would not be easy, as his once had. It pained him to do this to the little one, but Michelangelo had to learn to take a life. He just hoped that his sons would have many years before they had to defend their own lives against man. They must learn to kill their own food, so Splinter let his son grow hungry enough to steel his soft-heart. To make his first kill. It did not take long, only a few days, and soon Michelangelo grew to be a very deft hunter himself.

The warm seasons were the happiest. Food was plenty enough where even though they never knew what it was to be truly full, they were never hungry for more than a few days. Fresh, clean water was more difficult to find with less rain and it was dangerous to dwell too long near the lake, but he simply took extra precautions. He left the lair only with the mask of night and bound himself with multiple layers of clothing. Stolen or scavenged, he would take whatever he could. Man did not care if he or his sons lived or died, but he did. And honor had to be put aside to do so.

For many years, never resting as he raised his sons, he questioned the worth of honor. With his father's memory in mind, he taught his sons what honor was and always found himself unable to truly grasp the concept himself. He knew that to be honorable would be to take pride in oneself and others, to be respectful and kind and protect those who are less fortunate. To always keep to their words and never lie. But honor did not fill his son's bellies and did not keep them warm during cold nights. Honor did not help them survive.

It was his son who taught him honor. The quiet one, Leonardo. His son had lived to his fourth year but was wise beyond his years. Where Donatello asked endless questions about the world around them, Leonardo only watched and listened. Leonardo did not bother himself with how or why men acted like his brother did. The boy shadowed Splinter and took after his lead.

Splinter knew that Leonardo had to become head of their clan, should he die. Donatello was intelligent, yes, but too intelligent. It kept him distant from his brothers. He wanted to know too much and that posed a risk to their clan, for Donatello would find ways to evade him and leave the lair to watch the humans. Alone. He always wanted to be alone and there was a sharpness to the boy's eyes. A bitterness that Splinter saw reflected in himself. That was a great grief for him. He wanted his son to be bright and happy like Michelangelo. The sun child. Always playing and laughing and causing mischief. The boy would always be the first to dive into any old boxes or bags that he would bring home. He'd build forts and draw crude pictures with pieces of chalk or rock. He was always moving and speaking. Splinter was not sure if the boy even know what he said. He simply spoke. All words. Big words, little words. Most were random, rarely did he actually string together sentences. Or keep to a single language. He knew both Japanese and English well, which were so different to the ear and tongue, yet the boy spoke both without distinguishing one from the other.

Much to the frustration of his fire child, Raphael. He was as bright and energetic as Michelangelo, but was unable to grasp how to form words and make sense of them. He communicated in screams and grunts, much to Splinter's frustration. His sensitive ears would throb by the end of the day and his patience would run dry and he would have to leave, before he struck the child out of anger. He could still remember the needles and sharp burn that made his fur stand on end. The shocking pain. He would not strike any child out of anger. Even if it meant that he would leave the room to give his ears a rest.

Leonardo had to be the leader, even if it took away the chance for his son enjoy any kind of childhood. His sons understood hunger and fear, but they could laugh and smile. That made the hardships lessen. It gave him courage to go on and to not simply leave them as he fantasized on occasion, when everything grew too heavy to bear. Now Leonardo will know the burden that he himself had to shoulder. It broke the rat's heart. But he had to teach Leonardo now, while he was young. Or they may not live to adulthood. So Splinter took him topside the most, teaching him what he learned himself while scavenging and what it takes to make a good leader.

"A leader must understand honor," the young boy dutifully stated. "He must put his clan before himself and take them down the right path. But Don said that right and wrong is the same thing and that humans do whatever they want and don't think of what happens afterward. He's wrong, though. Raph hit him when Don said that and I should have stopped it. But I didn't. Don makes me really mad sometimes."

"Your brother has seen more sides of man than I would like. Do not fret too much when Donatello troubles himself with his own tongue. He is smart enough to know better."

The day was cool and crisp with the air of autumn amongst them. Rotten leaves and chilly mud helped soften their footfalls as they made their way through the woodlands, to the lake. They were to gather firewood and use a net that Splinter fashioned from strings salvaged from the footwear of man. He tied them as tight as he could and weighted the corners with palm-sized stones. His son was picking up pieces of broken wood, feeling where his eyes could not see in the dark of night. He continued repeating his past lessons with, "The duty to the clan is the most important. The leader must put aside his own wants to act in the best nature of the clan. There is no leader with no clan."

"This world is hard and cruel, Leonardo. It does not want us in it. You are young, but this you should know. All we have in this world is each other. This is why you must focus on becoming stronger, to protect those you have."

"Like how Yoshi protected you? I know I can never meet him, but I like to hear stories about him. I mean, Yoshi-_san_. He had honor and he died honorably." The child still fumbled with the mannerisms of his grandfather's language, but the boy was quick to learn and switched to the second language with ease as he said, "_A chicken has no honor in being an ostrich_."

The rat laughed and rubbed his son's rough, woolen hat. "This is true. Such as a man has no honor when he acts without. Honor is shown in what you do. Not all have honor, my son."

Such as himself. The rat tried to live honorable, as his father did, but they were outsiders. They would be hated and feared if exposed. If a son needed food or clothing and he could not find it amongst the trash of the city, he would take it. Whether he slipped into the back of small stores, with the men away, or if he struck down another man to steal his coat and footwear, it mattered not to him. The risk was great, but worth it if he succeeded. "_If you do not enter the tigers cave, you will not catch its cub_," Splinter told his son.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained." Leonardo smiled up at him, pleased with himself. "It's like you can't do anything without risking something. When I told Mikey that, he said that he liked orange but he was green and crayons taste bad. I think he was trying to color himself to be a tiger, but ate them instead. He's weird."

The rat smiled and lead his eldest son to the waters of the lake, where he cast the net. The moon and stars were darkened by the lights of the city, but the rat could see well enough to fish. "He should not do that. It is difficult to find crayons. That and he will get sick if he continues to eat whatever he sees. I thought that he learned better the first time, but apparently that is not the case."

"First time?" His son looked confused but soon turned his attention to the net, where it was beginning to tug and struggle. He helped the rat pull up the fish. A small trout, but enough to feed his sons. It was a good catch. "I can do it," his son said as he gripped the fish in it's struggles with a tight grip. "It's more slippery than rats, but it doesn't bite back. Raph always cries when he gets bit or pecked, but I don't."

Leonardo bashed the head of the fish once against a large stone, killing it. He gave the prize to the rat with a proud smile. "The fish died honorably. He's going to feed us now and I'll come back to get another one. Should I feed the others, to thank them for feeding me? That feels like it would be honorable, since I ate their brother."

Honor does not feed his family. Splinter knew that. Then why did his son's words have an odd, simple truth to them? He rolled up the sodden net and asked, "What makes you believe this, my son?"

Leonardo looked at the water as thoughtful as his four-year-old eyes could muster and replied slowly, "I think that because," he bit his lower lip, "I'm showing that I care about the fish. And that I am grateful for what the fish has given me and my family. So I'm honoring the fish by feeding his family, too. Even though I'm going to eat them."

His eyes stung as he tucked the net under one arm and the thin shoulders of his son with the other. The rat felt old next to such youth, but his son gave him hope. He will return to the people from which he's taken, when he can. For now, he will raise his sons and learn from them.

The years passed more quickly as they grew older. Raphael mastered speech-craft and Donatello filled his hungry mind with all the books that the rat brought home. Michelangelo grew more restless and curious, but Leonardo kept his brothers in line. He helped the aging rat keep his family together.

But the rat feared that this was not enough. Not this year.

Winter had come.

A chill bit the air that crunched bone and tore warm skin. The snow and sharp winds sang through the tunnels and left the little ones shivering. This was the worst winter he had seen yet. The old rat was spared from the worst breaths of cold with his thick fur, but his sons – the best he could do was dress them in lair after lair until they were waddling balls of clothes. They had lived to a decade, a blessing that Splinter did not always believe would happen. This year he was determined to let his sons live yet another year. They had come so far in learning how to defend themselves and they grew so fast now. Already Raphael had become stronger than himself. Where they grow and strengthen, he shrinks and weakens. It was terrifying for him, for he was not ready to leave his sons to fate; for fate was cruel and had no mercy for the young.

Leonardo strutted around the small space of their lair, balancing on the heating pipe that kept them from freezing to death. At his hip, strapped by a half-rotten belt was a _bokken_. He carved the weapon himself, as a gift to his eldest son for becoming a _genin_, the first of his brothers. He could see the hurt pride and jealousy in his sensitive son, Raphael. Now instead of tears, his crying has been replaced with raging tantrums, but Splinter knew that the emotions would pass with time and he would accept his brother's place as his elder. And he too would eventually rise to his brother's rank and be given his own weapon. The idea was almost frightening as, even without being armed, Raphael could easily overpower and push around his other brothers. Michelangelo was as good at calming the tempered son as he was evoking his wrath, so he trusted that son to calm the tempered storm whenever it arose.

Food reserves were diminishing faster than Splinter could have believed possible, as his sons needed far more nourishment than they did when they were younger. They were beginning to reach adolescence and this, he felt, was to be a very important stage in their lives. He must give them what they need to grow healthy, whatever it took. Splinter kept them at home; the cold too dangerous for any of them to leave their warm lair. The heated pipes shielded them from the majority of the cold that crept along the chilled brick of the sewer tunnels. The rat took extra precautions and ripped up fur-filled installation from other piping, stuffing it where icy air filtered through.

But heat did not feed them. He could melt snow it buckets that had had gathered over the years, for water – but food was all but impossible to find. Man were huddled up on their own lairs, too wary to brave the deep snows. The rat could not remember a day where it did not snow, and could hardly remember what the warmth of sunlight was like. He had to feed his children. Day, night – he would be gone all day, almost every day. When his own hunger chased away his fear of man, he stole into the back of stores, even with man inside. Most had alarms, which brought man with guns. The sounds they shot made his legs numb and his heart beat until it pained him. A few times he would be grazed by a bullet and that reset his fear of man. They protected their food well, for they also did not know how long it would last. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Still the snow would not let up and it was rare for his sons to eat even once a week. The strength and plumpness they gained in the warm seasons melted off their bones so that they were thin sticks, sickly and gaunt.

He had to go farther away. He had to find food, good food. He had to save his sons.

His own stomach was a hollow vessel, painful only when he drank, which brought on burning cramps. His strength was failing him and made him clumsy, unsure, and fearful. The rat knew that he could not risk stealing from man. They were too powerful, too watchful and careful. The animals they would hunt before were hiding and he had to limit his time out in the snow, for fear of freezing. Many times the lure of sleep would tempt him, but he had to fight it off. He had to keep moving. There had to be _some_ sort of food left in the trash of the city.

But there was not.

Brought to the frozen waters of the lake in Central Park, Splinter dug with his claws to create a hole in the ice. On this trip he brought with him a stick with string and hook, fashioned after what he observed of man doing to catch fish of their own. It was daylight and bright, but there was no stirring of any living creature, other than him. It would be for the best. If pushed far enough, he would be willing to take the life of any unlucky man or animal that happened to cross his path. His sons came first. Always.

To his dismay, there was no stirring underneath the ice, either. The rat did not know if this is because the fish knew he was trying to catch them, or if they were all dead. Splinter could not give up, not yet. He moved his fishing hole farther into the lake. It was easier to dig into the ice, for it was thinner. But that was more dangerous. He was being foolish, he knew, but he was so _hungry_. And his sons were hungrier. They needed food. He had to try.

The sun could not be seen behind the grey snow clouds that darkened the skies, but he knew several hours had passed before there was a tug on the string. Exalted desperation made his hands shake as he jerked up on the pole, rising a despairingly small fish. But it was something. He lowered it's flailing body onto the ice, tucking the pole into the belt that held up the wide pants about his waist and reached for the fish.

The ice creaked.

He snatched up the cold body, killing it by digging his claws into the flesh. The smell of blood made his mouth water and his stomach churn. Thoughts of honor and duty and fatherhood vanished as he gripped the still prey in his hand. Hamato Splinter did not realize he ate the entire fish until he licked the fur of his hands clean, hungry for any faint traces of flesh. Then he cried.

What a fool he was, a weak and utter _fool_. He might as well kill his children himself, for what good he was as a father. He was just a monster. They all were. That was why man hated them so. Why they shot him and hurt him and put him in a cage. They would do the same to his sons, he knew. But they were all dead. Or going to be dead, because he failed them.

He failed his father, too. He remembered.

Then the ice began to crack. It called him. It wanted to eat him as he ate his fish. The fish below wanted their brothers returned, the ones they took to eat themselves. "Where is the honor in this?" Splinter asked in a broken voice. "_There is no honor_ _amongst the hungry_," he answered in his native tongue. The language of his father.

The ice broke.

It happened too quickly for him to be shocked, the cold burned so hotly that the rat thought himself to be on fire. The pain ebbed away to a numbness as his frozen body watched the light from above fade away. Bubbles of air, of life, escaped his lips. He was dying.

_My sons, my poor sons. I am sorry_.

His tears burned. They were hot and painful. Donatello's first word. Sorry. Almost as useless as honor. Honor killed his father. It killed his sons. And him. He was dead. Sorry will not revive the dead, nor give his sons life. It was all so useless.

Darkness took him, but not for long. The peace of sleep did not linger as stinging wetness bit into his snout, his face, his shoulder. Then he felt himself being shook; he was a broken doll with limbs too heavy to fight back with. Wind stung his eyes as he opened them and he was too weary to care about the starved dog ripping at his shoulder. He could hardly feel it. He was too numb.

He could hear the tear of flesh and could see the thin parcels of his ear in the dog's mouth. It must have dragged him out of the water, just to eat him. Splinter choked up a laugh. How ironic life was. How cruel.

Or giving. Now he was alive. Now he had meat. He could feed his sons. Splinter could never say where he took the the strength from, but it was there. Deeply hidden. He brought the heel of his open palm upward, striking the bottom of the dog's jaw. It cracked. The dog howled and moved away, but the rat was faster. He trapped the back leg of the dog with his bald tail, stopping the shaggy beast enough to pounce on the back. Splinter had no strength to break the neck, so he dug his claws and teeth into the neck of the dog and it whimpered in pain. The body lurched in desperate attempts to flee, but it gave up and fell with the rat's body pressing it deep into the snow. Red overcame the white frost around him as the body below him quivered and whimpered, dying. Lapping up the hot, moist blood – he regained strength and warmth.

"Sorry," he told the dog as he broke it's neck. One quick twist and it was done.

Splinter cried as he carried the animal; the body was light and would not have much meat on the bones, but it had enough for four mouths. Four little mouths. He would not take a bite. He had his fill of shame for the day. But the dog did not relieve him of his shame. He could not stop crying. His grief and joy would not stop pouring out of his eyes. It was an odd sensation, to be so happy and yet be in such sorrow. It left him lightheaded. Only the warmth of his return home settled his mind.

Leonardo was the first to notice his appearance. He moved quickly to gather wood and knife. The other three began to push aside the blankets and newspapers and books that littered the cramped floor. Splinter lowered the dog to the ground and set up the firewood near the wall, as far away from the heated pipe as he could get. Raphael tore into the flesh and fur of the dog with the dull knife, cutting away the skin and separating it from the meat beneath. Donatello began the fire, being the most apt for it. The boy always had a knack for setting anything on fire. The skill not always a blessing.

They worked silently, save for Michelangelo who watched and said, "Leo killed a pigeon with his stick. We were waiting for you to come back so we can eat it." The boy frowned and grew sad as water filled the rat's eyes once again. "We didn't go out long, I promise! He just hit it once as it was trying to fly away and - "

"Mikey." The eldest brother covered the talkative mouth and snapped, "Shut up! See if I ever take you out again." Guilty, storm grey eyes rose to meet the rat's own. "I am sorry father, but you were gone so long and – and Raph was crying and - "

"Was not!" Raphael brandished the bloody knife with a scowl. "I don't cry. That's what babies do and I can break your stupid stick if I wanted!"

"Silence, both of you." His words wavered weakly, but it quieted the boys regardless. His sweet, loud boys.

Donatello brought out the pigeon, a scrawny creature that was plucked clean and ready to roast. Pride filled him, and shame. Enough to constrict his throat as his grief choked him. His sons were stronger than he was. A father should be stronger than his sons. Where he let hunger take his better judgment, they chose to wait for him. Trusted him to return. What good sons he had; and what a weak, unfaithful father they were forced to have.

"Don't cry, daddy." Michelangelo crawled up into his lap, gripping his fur and cold, sodden clothing. The snow had already melted from his fur. "I know it's little but it'll taste good. We can find more pigeons. I thought that they all flew south for the winter, since it's so cold, but Don said that I'm stupid. He said that they're just hiding from the cold."

"I _said _that the idea of pigeons migrating is stupid. Not that you're stupid. If you're going to get me punished for what I said, do it for what I _actually _said and not what you made up." The bitter boy cracked open the beak of the bird and raised his head to them, his face thoughtful and softer. "And dad is just happy. You can cry when you're happy." Donatello mounted the pigeon on a sharp stick that he sharpened himself, holding it over the fire and roasting it in it's skin. Sharp, green eyes met his own and the rat averted the gaze. His son was too intelligent. And lied too well.

"I am happy to be home, with my good sons." He kissed the brow of the little one in his lap, which made him squirm with happiness. The boy could never sit still. "Now help your brother, Michelangelo. It is time that we cook this meal and eat our fill."

The bundles of energy cut apart the dog, to be their dinner, while Splinter aided his other sons in stoking the fire. It was such a kind gift to be blessed with, these sons of his.

* * *

A/N - It's not really that Christmasy, is it? Well, not in the sense that it's all happy cheers and Santa Clause and pretty gifts. I wanted to portray the actual... worth of Christmas? The essence? The spirit? I don't know. To me, Christmas is about celebrating Christ and what He has done for us. That He gave us the gift of life. For others, they may believe different, but the actual sentiment in the holiday is gratitude for what we are blessed with, no matter the religion or political standing or whatever. So that's what I wanted to do.

So yeah, not a traditional Christmas stories with the TMNT, but I'm not one for tradition. Hopefully this was an enjoyable read regardless and it has spurred up some thoughts and love for the holiday, which I don't really share for whatever reason. I found this way more therapeutic than I could have ever imagined. HA HA HA HA HA! So I'll leave with with a Merry Christmas before I institutionalize myself.


End file.
